


Under No Circumstances

by Ingrid Pricks (coffee_pot)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, Don't worry, Gen, IT'S GAY, M/M, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Slow Burn, Yeah definitely, but it will also hurt, daytime television, domestic AU, just give it a minute, probably going to be a bit of a slow burn, you'll like it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-18 17:32:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17585243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffee_pot/pseuds/Ingrid%20Pricks
Summary: It wasn't that Dean was out to self sabotage, and if you asked him, he wouldn't tell you that he hated himself. He didn't. It was just...what was the point? Charlie had almost given up on him, and she was the last one really hanging around. And Dean had done that to himself, hadn't he?Hadn't he?He'd just resigned himself to it. He was going to die alone, watching QVC ads in the middle of the afternoon, and living a completely unexciting, mundane life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey friends. This is my first fic on this site (I've been lurking here for YEARS. First time writing here, though. Hello!)  
> bonus points if you can find me on ff.net. Actually, don't. Those are my high school fics. AND THEY'RE HORRENDOUS.
> 
> Anyway, this fic is an experiment. I'm currently neck-deep in writing my first original fiction series, and sometimes I need a breather.
> 
> I have this problem where I edit and overthink my writing way too much, so to balance it out, this fic is literally coming off the skillet and onto your plates. In other words, I'm writing it and posting it with no editing! Hope you enjoy! I'd love your feedback.

Dean stared at the still, gray water floating in his kitchen sink with despair.  
There were chunks of things floating in it. A bit of an old tomato, a crumbly, white hunk of something that he couldn’t quite identify, and a smattering of pulpy coffee grounds.  
None of it was moving.  
“Just stick your hand in,” he muttered under his breath. “It could be worse. It could be a toilet.”  
He stretched his fingers towards the water. At the last second, he yanked his hand back, as if rescuing it from the snap of a deadly sea monster.  
“I can’t do it,” he complained to the empty kitchen. “I just can’t.”  
For the third time in as many minutes, he reached over the sink and flicked the switch against the backsplash, and just like the other two times, he was met with silence.  
The disposal was actually and truly shot.

Dean gave up. He went into the bathroom, careful not to trip over the stubbornly upright strip of carpet right outside of it, and washed his hands. He filled a glass of water from the same faucet, plunked down on the couch, and called Charlie.

“Charlie Bradbury,” she said elegantly.  
So she was at work, then. Great.  
“It’s me,” he said, even though she’d definitely already seen his name on the caller id and definitely already knew that. “Sorry. Didn’t know you were at work.”  
“What’s going on?” she asked, only dropping the professional tone slightly.  
“It’s nothing. Just…sorry. Go back to work,” he said.  
“I’ll call you later,” she promised.  
“Yeah. Bye.”  
She hung up, and Dean drank his excellent, not at all metallic-tasting room temperature water.

The sink would be an easy fix, he told himself. Besides, he didn’t need a kitchen sink anyway. Hell, he barely needed a kitchen, for that matter. Still, it took a lot of definitely-not-concentrating to fight back the rising, acidy wave of panic in his stomach.

He noted smugly to himself that it was a full ten minutes before he resorted to turning he tv on.  
He was working on it. Thinking, breathing, before drowning out the noise in his head. Trying to deal with it himself.  
Controlling the anxiety rarely worked altogether, but Charlie had been encouraging, and the time he could go in silence before caving to the need for a distraction was edging out longer, and longer.

The only thing on that wasn’t a QVC spot or a talk show at this hour of the day was Law and Order: SVU. Dean refused. He absolutely refused; and as a consequence, ended up watching QVC. He nearly got himself talked into buying not one, not two, but three foot massage and bath...thingies from Sheryl on channel 57, who talked quite animatedly about the foot bath while the other three middle aged women on the screen with her nodded enthusiastically, all sitting with their feet comfortably crammed into their own Foot SpectacularsTM.

It was times like these that Dean was glad that he lived alone, because there was no one to see him shamefully slip out of his socks, roll up the edges of his sweatpants, and dip his feet into his own tub to try the “relaxing effect” for himself. Or at least a substitute for it.  
He needed to clean the tub. That was the un-nice thing about sitting, fully dressed, on the edge of one’s tub while staring at the white-ish tile walls.

“Tomorrow,” he promised the shower, trying to mentally place where he’d last seen the shower cleaner. It was in a blue and white bottle, with bubbles on it. Under the kitchen sink, probably.  
Best not to think about the kitchen sink right now.

The water had gone cold before Charlie called him back.

“Whaddup, bitch,” she whooped into her phone.  
“You’re off work, then?” Dean laughed, kicking a little bit at the water to make it swirl.

He should have added bubbles. That’s what made the Foot SpectacularTM so appealing. He hoisted his legs over the side of the tub and grabbed his towel off the hook on the wall.  
“No, my boss is sitting right here. Say hi to Dick,” Charlie said dryly.  
“I can’t believe he calls himself that,” Dean chuckled. “He really lets people call him that.”

“Um. It’s genius?” Charlie said. The sound of her Prius starting filled the background of the call. “At least, I think it is. See, my thought is, like, he knows he’s powerful enough that no one's gonna use it against him. No one can get to him!”  
Charlie’s voice went high and shrill at her last sentence.  
“Geez, okay. I get it.”  
“Sorry. High stress day,” she sighed. “I need an Adderall. Or five.”  
“Why don’t we just hang out instead?” he offered hopefully.  
“Great idea. I’ll be at your place in ten,” she said. She hung up again, before he could protest.

He always surprised himself with what he was capable of when he panicked. Well, panicked, but panicked properly. There was his normal panic, that just stuck him in front of the television like a lazy babysitter, and then there was his panic-monkey-demon, the one that actually convinced him to get his shit together, albeit temporarily.  
Before Charlie arrived, he managed to scoop almost everything into the closet. He lit a candle too, and opened a window, even though the air outside was a frigid ten degrees.  
His apartment was a pumpkin spice-scented popsicle when Charlie knocked on his door.  
“Cigarettes,” she said, in lieu of hello, standing on her tiptoes in her Jimmy Choo’s and wrapping her arms around his neck.  
“Yes, please,” he whined. “I’ll grab my coat.”  
“I’ve got a pack of Camels,” she offers. “Just opened them.”  
“I’ve got some left,” he insisted.  
Charlie shook her head while he slipped his boots on. “Save your smokes. Mine are fresher.”  
Dean nodded silently, and followed her back out the door, shutting his window as he left.

“So, tell me about your stressful day,” he quipped, exhaling a cloud of smoke before tucking his mouth and nose back inside his scarf.  
Charlie coughed and winced. “I got promoted.”  
Dean smacked her arm. “Were you going to tell me?”  
“I’m telling you now, stupid.”  
He smiled softly, diving back into his scarf. “Right.”  
“So, I mean, it’s great. But, I don’t know. I’m being given five new accounts. I’m grateful, you know,” she tapped the ash off on the edge of the dumpster. “It’s just a lot.”  
Dean tried not to drool.  
Charlie usually did pretty well, not complaining about her fancy job to his face, but here she was, standing in her nine hundred dollar shoes on the dirty brown ice, in the parking lot of Dean’s rundown apartment complex that had been built in the 70s, and not in the cool way, and probably hadn’t received proper maintenance since at least the early 90s.  
Nine hundred dollar shoes. That was more than Dean’s rent, and thank God, because he didn’t know what he’d do if his rent was much higher. Starve, probably.  
“Your shoes,” he said dully.  
“What?” she pulled her cigarette out of her mouth and looked at him. Her teeth were chattering.  
“Aren’t you worried about them, you know, getting ruined?” he said.  
Don’t sound bitter, don’t sound bitter.  
He wasn’t bitter. He was...well.  
“No,” she said. “No, I’m not worried.”  
She stomped her foot. “It’s frozen solid. Nothing’s getting wet. I’m more worried about slipping and demolishing my ass.”  
“Interesting choice of words,” he shivered.  
“Want another one?” Charlie asked, waving the case of Camels in his face.  
“I think I’ll freeze to death,” he said. “Better not.”  
She shrugged. “You’re right. Here, give me your arm. I don’t trust your steps.”  
He obliged. “Wise choice, Bradbury.”  
Charlie almost bit it on the steps, even with Dean’s arm. All in all, they made it back into his second story apartment in one piece. Charlie threw herself onto the couch, and pried her shoes off her feet, while Dean, with a renew determination, retrieved the plunger from the bathroom and went back to work on the sink.  
“We should watch a movie,” Charlie said, tucking her feet under her.  
Dean grunted in agreement, and then gagged as the sink came unclogged with a sickening, hollow sucking sound.  
“That sounded fantastic,” Charlie said sarcastically.  
“Right?”  
“Come over here, get warm,” Charlie begged. Dean looked over the bar-height countertop to see her holding up the edge of his fluffy blanket.  
“Tempting,” he said. “I want to clean the sink out real quick, though. You know, before it smells worse than it already does.”  
Since when? He asked himself. He didn’t care when he was alone.  
“Fine. I’m going to raid your fridge,” Charlie said.  
“I don’t...well…”  
It was too late. She was already up.

 

“Let’s see what you’ve got,” she said, pulling the door open. “Let’s see, we’ve got...Diet coke, and cottage cheese. And one...what was this, an apple? It looks like a fairy godmother in her nineties, Dean. God, this is just sad.”  
Dean shrugged and pulled his hands into his sleeves, tucking them under his arms. “It’s healthy stuff,” he argued.  
Charlie shook her head. “I don’t know that it is, actually.”  
“Look, I haven’t exactly had the time to go grocery shopping…”  
“And by time you mean money…” she said gently.  
“No, I’m fine, really. Just haven’t gotten around to it…”  
But Charlie was already pulling out her wallet. “Just let me give you some money, okay? Buy yourself some real food.”  
“You don’t have to do that.”  
“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!!  
> I am hoping to post updates to this at least a couple times a week. Feedback is welcome!  
> This chapter mentions past self harm.

Dean dropped his keys onto the shelf by his front door and kicked off his shoes, careful not to upset the box that he was balancing precariously in his right arm. 

He took the box over to the table and set it down carefully. 

“This is dumb,” he muttered to himself, opening the top of the box.

It was a cake. Chocolate. Cream cheese frosting.

 

It had seemed like a good idea when he’d come up with it initially. A way to push himself to recognize the occasion. He’d held out, day after day, checking the calendar, counting the days.

And he’d done it. A whole year.

When the lady at the bakery counter had asked him what the cake was for, he’d just said ‘an anniversary.’ 

 

Now that he had the cake, though, it felt sad and silly. Mostly sad, because he was alone. Cake wasn’t meant to be eaten alone. It was better with other people.

\------- “One year, huh?” Charlie commented, digging her fork into the generous slice Dean put in front of her.

Dean tucked his hands inside his sleeves.

“Yep.” 

She was watching him. He smiled, or tried to.

She put her hand on his arm.

“I’m proud of you, Dean. That’s amazing. Truly.” 

He smiled back, despite himself. 

“Thanks.”

“Besides,” she said, “the cake? Brilliant. Amazing way to celebrate. Tell me you bought some real food too though, while you were out?”

Dean ran his fork around the edge of his plate. “I will.”

She shook her head. 

“Alright. Hey, do you have any milk?”

He shook his head. 

“I’ve got water.”

“Can I have a glass? Get one for you, too,” she requested.

Dean had to wash the glasses first. 

When he handed Charlie hers, she held it out, and cleared her throat. 

“To you, Dean. For being one year clean from self harm.”

Dean swallowed.

“Come on,” she prodded, holding her glass out further. 

He nodded and clinked his glass against hers.

 

Charlie knew about it, of course. The scars. They’d been friends since high school. She’d been the first one to notice. The only one to notice.

His dad had never noticed; even when Dean was wearing long sleeved sweaters in July, John Winchester didn’t think twice about it, and Sam...well, Sam was too young to notice something like that. It wasn’t Sam’s job to watch out for his brother. That was Dean’s job.

Charlie, though. Charlie noticed. 

She’d caught him at his locker one day, in sophmore year. 

_ “Let me see,” she’d said.  _

_ “See what?”  _

_ She’d touched his arm, gently.  _

_ “Have you been doing it again?”  _

_ He’d nodded, tears stinging in the corners of his eyes and making his vision blurry. _

_ She’d taken his arm, carefully, turning her back to the hallway so none of the passing student could see, and pulled a Sharpie out of her pocket.  _

_ “Push your sleeve up,” she’d whispered. _

_ “Charlie…” _

_ “Do you trust me?” _

_ He’d pushed his sleeve up, and he’d watched her try so hard not to react.  _

_ She bent her head over his arm, and he felt the tip of the marker tracing over the undamaged parts of the skin on his inner arm, and over some of the raised scars. _

_ They’d stayed like that in the hallway for what felt like ages, heads bent together, Dean on high alert that someone was going to catch them, someone would see. _

_ When Charlie had finally let go of his arm and capped her marker, she’s kissed him. There were tears in her eyes.  _

 

Charlie stayed until they’d eaten half of the cake. An impressive feat; it wasn’t a small cake.

She couldn’t miss dinner with Dorothy, she explained. She’d had to work late the last three nights, and had kept ducking out on their dates. 

“Are you going to scare this one away?” Dean asked her teasingly while she put her coat on.

“I’m more afraid that she’ll scare me away,” Charlie answered.

“She can’t be that bad.”

“She definitely is,” Charlie grinned. “She was telling me the other night that she got caught in the crossfire while she was reporting in Iraq. She wants to show me her scars.”

“Sheesh,” Dean whistled.

“Yeah. She’s been shot. In Iraq. Dean, I’ve never even left Colorado.”

“Didn’t your Mom once accidentally drive you guys over the state line into Wyoming when you were going to see that robot exhibit in eighth grade?” Dean asked.

Charlie stared at him. “If you weren’t my best friend, i’d be concerned that you’re stalking me. Dude, how the  _ hell _ do you remember that?” 

“Hell if I know,” he shrugged. 

“You’re amazing,” she wrapped her arms over his shoulders and kissed his nose. 

He grimaced.

“So, do I ever get to meet your girlfriend?” Dean asked.

“She’s not my girlfriend! Not yet. That’s taking it too fast.”

It wasn’t. Dean didn’t think so. Charlie and Dorothy had been going out with each other since September. Both of them seemed unwilling to commit, at least outwardly. At least, from what Charlie told Dean.

Sometimes, it felt like Charlie was compartmentalizing him. Keeping him out of her personal life; shoving him in the corner like some filthy habit she was ashamed of. He hadn’t met Dorothy. They never went anywhere together anymore, although, to be fair, that was probably his own fault. He didn’t go much of anywhere, with anyone. It was exhausting. 

“What about you?” Charlie asked, holding the door open and letting all the cold air in. “Any guys on your radar?”   
“Nope,” Dean smiled. “Go. You’re going to be late for your dinner.”

“I love you,” she grinned.

“I love you too.”

He ate the rest of the cake for the dinner. It made him feel disgusting, but it was better than going out shopping. 

Charlie leaving his place always left a cavity. The apartment was an echo chamber of his own spinning thoughts when he was alone. 

It made it worse to think about how she was never alone. He wasn’t jealous, or maybe he was. She worked in an office full of people, went home, to a house with two roommates, went to dinner with her friends or her coworkers or her not-girlfriend.

Dean...well, he hadn’t worked since November, when the bar hadn’t been okay with him calling out for eight days with what they said 'wasn’t a good enough reason'. 

So, he stayed home, to prevent spending money. His car had broken down, anyway, two weeks ago, and fixing it cost money, and besides that, was a pretty good excuse for not going out to look for a new job. For emergency grocery runs, or emergency cake runs, he took the bus. He wondered if maybe he shouldn’t ever bother fixing his car. He could always take the bus. 

The television could be good company, sometimes, but not always. He’d read a couple of books, or the beginnings of them, but nothing had really grabbed his attention. 

He checked his phone and realized that he’d been stewing over his lonely thoughts for two hours.

It wasn’t the longest that he’d spent staring at the thin carpet and listening to the whoosh of the space heater, but it was long enough.

There was still a streak of sunlight outside, probably enough to last him twenty minutes.

He could go on a walk. No, he  _ would _ go on a walk. Get his blood moving. That was a good thing. Moving blood.

Inspired by the sudden surge of motivation, he pulled on his shoes and coat and grabbed his keys and went out the door. 

The snow was starting to look blue in the fading light, and it made him feel colder, immediately.

He stood, frozen in indecision outside of his own door.

“Hey, are you okay?” a voice below him said.

Dean leaned out a little further over the railing of the stairs.

The man on the sidewalk outside his building smiled. 

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Just admiring the sunset."

The man turned and looked. 

“It’s not very good,” he answered.

“What?” Dean asked, confused.

“The sunset,” the man said. “It’s not very good.”

“Oh. I didn’t notice,” Dean said.

“I thought you said you were looking at it.”

“Not really,” Dean admitted. “I was deciding if I wanted to go on a walk.”

“Ah.”

The man shoved his mittened hands into his coat pockets and turned his head to look down the sidewalk that stretched between the rows of buildings. 

“Want some company?” 

“Um,” Dean said.

“I’ll only be a little hurt if you say no,” the man offered.

Dean told himself that in the end, it was his recent deprivation of human contact that made him say yes. It wasn’t that the man was attractive, in any way.

The man watched silently as Dean walked slowly down the stairs, clutching the rails to avoid slipping. 

When he got to the bottom, the man held out his hand.

He had intensely blue eyes. They pierced straight through Dean.

“Hello,” the man said. “I’m Castiel.” 

 


End file.
